Parallels
by Lynse
Summary: The rails on which they travelled were not, Will soon realized, the only things which ran in parallel. And as the youngest of the Old, he could well benefit from the wisdom of his elders. One-shot.


A/N: Set at the end of the summer after _Silver on the Tree_ for Will. Standard disclaimers apply.

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><p>Mary had hoped to be invited out for at least part of the summer and his mother had hoped to get away to see Aunt Jen, but when Will finally left Wales, he left alone.<p>

He had expected as much. In truth, he had wished it. He did not want to involve his family in the dealings with the Dark. Mary had been used by the Rider before, caught in the Spell of Lir. His parents had been tricked by the same Rider, lulled without magical means into enough of a sense of security that they had seen nothing wrong with inviting the Dark inside. But his family had always been vulnerable. There had been enough close calls that Will had no illusions about that. There was Max, who had been targeted by the one who was not Maggie Barnes; Paul, whose mind would have been snapped by the Dark if they had been a little bit stronger or the Light a little weaker; and even his mother, who had indirectly been caused pain by the forces of the Dark.

He had not wished the burdens of the Light on anyone, for the mortals who tried to carry it inevitably broke under the weight.

Forgetfulness was for the best. Though Will ached for what was lost, he did not question the Lady's wisdom, nor Merriman's. He had made the same decision himself where his own family was concerned.

The Drews had left before he had, of course, so this was not his first farewell this summer. But he had truly said farewell to them when he had to Merriman, for the distance that had come between them once they'd forgotten and Will had not could not be breached. They would not be as close as they had been before.

He suspected the others had felt this distance, if not known precisely what it was or the reason for its cause, but it had not stopped Jane from requesting that they all write each other and keep in touch. A part of Will had been wary of the very idea, but the part of him which was still very much a young boy who wanted to keep his friends had agreed.

The Dark, after all, had been banished.

He would be more careful about which traces he left behind once he was older, once he needed to disappear.

But right now, he was more Will Stanton than Old One, and he was sitting in the train compartment beside an older lady who had taken one of the coveted window seats and a weary mother with two young children who were squabbling over the other. The woman beside him kept her gaze firmly fixed outside and did not seem to catch the mother's silent pleas that she give up her seat.

Will pulled out the book that had been buried in his knapsack since the train ride out and stared at the pages, wishing he could lose himself in the story instead of in his memories.

When he next looked up, the family was gone. His remaining companion had not moved. Will returned to his book, but he could not remember what he had already read.

He was not sure what made him look up the next time. The train had not pulled into another stop, and its usual rhythm was not otherwise broken. But after a few seconds of observation, Will realized that something had changed, for all that he was not sure why.

The woman must have felt his gaze, for she raised a hand to wipe away her silent tears. Will thought he should offer her a handkerchief, but he wasn't sure the one he had on hand was actually clean. Despite Aunt Jen's best intentions, he'd managed to get it dirty since yesterday, when she'd washed.

"I dislike trains," the woman said by way of explanation. She rummaged in a pocket and produced her own handkerchief before dabbing at her eyes. "Forgive me; I'm being a maudlin old fool."

She did not seem terribly older than his own parents, if at all, but Will supposed she thought all young boys thought people her age were positively ancient.

"I shall listen, if you would like to talk," Will offered.

The look she gave him was sharp and probing, and Will realized too late that his words were not those of a mere twelve year old. Had he not known better, he would have thought her like him. But she had not the taint of the vanquished Dark—far from it—and he was the last remaining of the Light.

Still, it seemed as if a change had come over her that was akin to the one Bran had undergone when he'd lived up to his heritage. It was shift that was not imperceptible to an Old One, even if it likely would have gone unmarked by any other boy his age. The boy in him had not paid enough attention, but the Old One remembered that she had boarded at the same time as he. For one wild moment, he wondered if she was part of this all, somehow, part of the final battle between the Light and the Dark that had taken place on this earth.

"You speak with more wisdom than your years, young man," the woman observed finally. Her expression was amused, as if she were sharing a joke with him, but her eyes betrayed an echo of her earlier pain. "I'm Susan."

"Will." She had not offered her hand, and he did not offer his. Instead, he inclined his head to her. It felt more…fitting, even if he did not know why.

He suspected it was not because they had been sitting beside one another without speaking for the past hour.

"You boarded at Tywyn, didn't you?"

She had no trouble pronouncing the Welsh name as he first had. "Yes. I was visiting relatives. And you?"

"I was looking for something I fear I will never again find." She sounded wistful. "Would you think me daft if I said I was searching for traces of a lost land?"

Will said nothing, for he had done much the same—although he had found what he had been seeking, and from her tone he knew she had not.

"I thought not," she said softly. She was better at reading him than most, who would have taken his silence as a polite refrain from voicing agreement. She knew, somehow, that he was not simply humouring her.

Susan turned to look out the window again. "I was never a dreamer as a child, Will. I was the sensible one; certainly not the sort to go poking in the back of wardrobes or wandering through the Welsh hills, looking for traces of magic or anything else that's not quite of this world."

Will, who had decided to carefully stretch out his senses for any impression that this Susan was more than she first seemed, was consequently caught off guard when she did not continue her story but instead asked him a question: "What about you?"

"I think anything can happen in the oldest hills," Will replied, quite honestly.

"But are you the sort to seek it out?"

Will, who despite being an Old One wasn't quite sure how to answer that, especially since Susan seemed to read the true meaning in his words, gave the answer to a slightly different question. "I've been told I'm very old for my age." Other adults he'd encountered would take that as an implication that he thought himself very mature and that her insinuations of childish play were beneath him.

Susan did not. She gave him a searching look again before saying, "I was told the same when I was your age." There was a pause. "Of course, the war was still on at that time, and a war will make an adult of any child."

Will was astute enough to know that she was saying far more than she appeared to, that there was another meaning to her words. He was not astute enough to know precisely what else she meant, although the fact that he could sense nothing from her—nothing at all—was suspicious enough. "Did you lose someone?" he asked, wondering if this was the reason for her melancholy.

"Too many," she said grimly. "I lost more than just those who fought in defence of their country, Will. I lost a lifetime's worth of friends. And in the pain of that loss, I committed a great folly. I abandoned all I had learned, and I strove to forget."

"And the loss became easier to bear?"

Susan's mouth twisted. "Easier?" she repeated. "Yes, I suppose. It ceased to become real for me. I built a wall about myself, and I was able to distance myself from those I had lost. And in doing so, I was not only disgracing the memory of those I longed to forget, but I also lost those I'd still had. I was too much of a fool to realize that until the accident."

"The accident?"

"A train derailment, and the source of my dislike for an otherwise pleasant mode of transportation." Susan closed her eyes. "I was blinded, Will. I'd lost my family years before when I'd pushed them away, shunning their efforts to reach out to me. I succeeded in little more than adding to my guilt, in the end."

"I'm sorry." He was, truly, albeit perhaps more so because he, too, had just lost a family of sorts.

But he could hear far too many parallels between her story and his to naïvely think this all mere coincidence. He had just come through a war, for the last Rising of the Dark had been nothing less than that. He had attended the funeral of what had appeared to be Blodwen Rowlands and murmured comforting, sympathetic words to her husband, the mortal man who had ensured the Light's triumph. He had lost friends, family. Not just the Old Ones, for all that he would, eventually, rejoin them; he had even lost Bran, in one respect, when he had chosen to give up his birthright as the Pendragon.

Bran had forgotten. The Drews had forgotten. John Rowlands had forgotten. _"It is better so,"_ the Lady had said. Will did not doubt her. He'd ensured that Stephen did not remember, nor Paul, nor the reverend. It had been better that they all forget, for the Dark would have been too much for their minds, and they did not deserve to be plagued with questions to which they would never find satisfactory answers. There was quite a lot of that in life as it was without the belief that young Will Stanton was caught up in something big, something dark, something indistinct but altogether too real.

And he'd seen what had become of poor Hawkin, who had known and betrayed and become the Walker.

"Don't repeat my mistakes, Will," Susan said, facing him again. "Don't push those nearest to you away."

"I won't," said Will, but the words were empty for he could not make the promise. He was already contemplating the best ways to do that, the gentlest way to part from the others in order to protect them. Perhaps not now, but once some time had passed….

"You won't," Susan echoed, her words sounding careful, measured. He couldn't tell if she meant it as a statement of fact or a statement of challenge, though it should have been obvious from her tone.

Susan was infuriatingly difficult to read, and the Old One in Will respected what frustrated his human side. He could learn from her, as he had learned from Merriman, even if theirs was only a brief encounter.

But he did wonder who she truly was, for she must be more than she appeared to be. That she was hidden from young Will Stanton was not terribly surprising; that she could have passed undetected by the youngest of the Old Ones was impressive.

Will shifted in his seat and decided to act as she would expect him to; since the others had forgotten, it was an easier feat, even now when he was more Old One than young boy. "Did the war teach you all of that?" he asked, letting true curiosity colour his tone.

"The war, the aftermath, and every battle I've fought since," Susan answered. "I tried to tuck a part of myself away from the rest of the world, to wear a mask and be the girl everyone thought I was, the woman I was expected to be. But there is a time and a place for such guises, Will, and I lost myself among them." She took a deep breath and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. "You look like someone who can understand that."

He was.

But he was beginning to realize that she must have known all of that from the very beginning, or they likely wouldn't be having this conversation. She could have dried her tears, made no remark upon his words, expect perhaps to thank him for them, and he would have returned to his book. She could have studiously ignored his gaze, just as she had the mother's. Instead, she had begun this conversation and guided it, unmistakeably clearly, along this precise path, one that outlined a life that felt too parallel to his own to be entirely true, for all that he didn't think she had spoken a word of a lie.

Time seemed to catch, though by no conscious means of his own, and Will took the opportunity for what it was. He said aloud in the Old Speech, "_I am the youngest of the Old_."

She did not ask him to repeat what she hadn't quite caught. She did not pretend she had not heard. She did not give him the quizzical look of one who did not understand or the condescending look of one who believed he had sprouted gibberish to annoy her or the concerned look of one who thought he might be having a spell.

She only shook her head and said, "I've not been able to learn that language."

From the way she said it, all he could tell was what he already knew: that she was not a creature of Light or Dark but instead one of humanity's own. He could not distinguish if she recognized his speech for what it was, if she had known his kin, or if she had ever _tried_ to learn the Old Speech, providing she had known any of the other Old Ones.

"But you know it?"

"I suspect I may have heard it, once," Susan allowed slowly. "My impression was that it rang of legends and prophecies, and at the time I'd had quite enough of both." She straightened, and the moment was lost—which was all too unfortunate for Will, who couldn't help but wonder what legends had come to life for her as King Arthur's had for him or what prophecies she'd heard, since he rather suspected they were different from the ones he'd known. "But that's neither here nor there. You wish to be perfectly frank, then?"

Will blinked.

"I'll take that as a yes." Susan smiled at him. "I remember when I was your age. I had very little time to learn how to master the art of cloaking my words, of saying one thing and meaning more, if not something entirely different."

This time, Will knew to wait.

"I don't know your story, Will, but I recognize your look. I once wore it myself, or a variation of it. If you need…." Susan closed her eyes for a moment, then smiled and shook her head and looked at him again. "It is perhaps best if I turn your own words back to you. I shall listen, if you would like to talk."

Something told Will she would understand, but caution now held him back. She was, after all, merely a human, if not unlike an older Jane Drew, and the burdens he bore were not for her shoulders. "Thank you," he said politely, "but I'm afraid I wouldn't have anything of interest to say. I'd much rather hear your stories, if you're willing to share them. You mentioned the war?"

Susan surveyed him for such a long time that Will wasn't certain she'd take the prompt for what it was. Then, quietly, "You are a dreamer, are you not, young Will?"

He had not given her a proper answer before, and the repeated question—albeit rephrased—meant she had not forgotten that. "I know the value of it," he replied.

Susan smiled. "Then I'll forgo what I know of bullets and bombs in favour of battles fought by tooth and claw, arrow and boulder and blade."

Will, sensing that he might hear a bit of the truth, leaned a bit closer.

"My sister Lucy loved these stories," Susan informed him, and Will was suddenly forced to reconsider the thought that he'd be hearing the truth as opposed to an invented tale. "Every day here, she tried her best to live them. I was never able to do so as readily as she. I could never find as much meaning as she did, I suppose. I struggled with it."

If this was Susan's idea of speaking frankly, he was no better off than he had been when it had come to deciphering some of the things Merriman had said to him.

"I'm going to tell you about the Gentle Queen," Susan said. "She was not underestimated by outsiders as much as her Valiant sister, whose youth painted her as naïve, but there are far too many people who equate _gentle_ with _weak_, and the Queen of the Horn was nothing of the sort when she ruled with the others over Narnia."

"The Queen of the Horn?" Will repeated.

"Another of her names," Susan explained. "She carried a hunting horn with her, for help of some kind would find the one who blew it." The smile on Susan's face grew into a grin, and a twinkle appeared in her eye. "Might you know something of that, Will? Of summoning with a horn?"

Of course he did. He'd summoned the Six together with the horn Ms. Greythorne had gifted him, and he'd used it again in the Lost Land, for only the horn could stop the wheel.

But there was certainly no reason for this woman to have even an inkling of any of that.

A mask fell over Will's face, and he schooled his expression into a puzzled frown. "I'm sorry?"

"I know the feel of magic," Susan said quietly, "and I've answered its call before. It was not so easy this time, but I know I've found the one I was meant to." Leaning in, she whispered in his ear, "I know you are more than you appear."

She had no intentions of telling him a proper story, invented or otherwise, until she had the truth from him—some of it, at least, as she was not satisfied thus far with his glib responses. Will knew she would not be easy to trick, that he would be the fool for trying. He'd shown his hand, albeit briefly, and she was astute enough to recognize it for what it was, rather than labelling it—and him—as childish.

"And you?" Will challenged. "Are you not more than you appear?"

"I am all that I appear to be," Susan said smartly, "if you look properly. It was terrible when I was your age, everyone always assuming I was _just a child_, however mature they thought me. It's a pity I didn't heed the lessons I'd been taught before, what with animals becoming as dumb as they're treated, for people are just the same, if we let ourselves be that way."

Will was not entirely sure what to make of that, for he _knew_ she was saying more than he could catch. "And you let yourself be that way?" he guessed.

A slight frown appeared on Susan's face. "I suppose I could call it a moment of weakness." The way she spoke the word said more for her distaste of it than anything else. "I was strong-willed. I was willing to do whatever needed to be done. But I'd fallen prey to fears and doubts before that and was too foolish to keep the same from happening again. I trusted myself; I stopped trusting others. I would hope that you would listen to your elders and learn from my mistakes."

"You believe I am in danger of repeating them?"

"I believe you are no more a young boy than I was a young girl when I appeared to be your age," Susan replied simply. "I've no idea who or what you look to for guidance. I had Aslan, the son of the Emperor-over-the-Sea and so much more. I had my siblings. And—" here her voice dropped so much that Will had to strain to hear it "—I had the light of the radiant southern sun, when I was home." Her voice caught, and she reached for her handkerchief to dab again at the tears that had reappeared in her eyes.

Will watched this silently, piecing together the little he knew of Susan and what he could guess, and he finally voiced his conclusion: "You are the Gentle Queen of the Horn." It would sound ludicrous to anyone who did not Know, as Will Knew, but he had the knowledge of Gramarye, and he had the experience of an Old One.

"Yes." The admission came without hesitation. "I was not prone to weakness, Will, but it came on little by little, and I allowed it to consume me. When I allowed myself to be blinded, I lost sight of those I turned to for guidance, and it took me far too long to be able to find my way on my own." The handkerchief disappeared again, and she straightened, becoming again the Queen of the Horn Will had now realized her to be. "You know enough to know I do not speak falsely, I imagine, so you need not doubt the sincerity of my offer. If you ever have need of me, Will, call me. I will come."

The words spilled from Will's mouth before he even realized he was saying them: "I've no idea how to call you."

"You do." Susan rose and collected her bag. "After all, I daresay I can feel magic nearly as well as you." The train began to slow. They were arriving at a station, though Will had not being paying enough attention of late to know which one. "Good day, Will Stanton."

"Fare thee well, my lady."

The brilliant smile on Susan's face was worth the pain the old rhythm of the words caused him, as he'd not spoken so since he'd last been with Merriman.

He missed his master terribly, and in the few seconds it took for him to fight off the onslaught of memories, Susan had stepped from the train compartment.

It was only once she was gone that Will realized he had never told her his family name.


End file.
